


sleep until it's over

by faeryroses



Series: sleep until it's over [1]
Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Angst, M/M, Platonic Touching, Post-The Death Cure, a lil bit of fluff, angst with a semi-happy ending?, brenda is bi, brenda/thomas is ALSO only platonic, could be interpreted as Asexual Thomas, in Thomas's POV, lots of platonic intimacy tho, newtmas is the main ship and it was romantic, past tense sections are his dreams/memories, platonic intimacy is good, present tense sections are his real life in the moment, spoilers obviously, takes place in the safe haven, the whole thing, third person, this entire fic tho is just thomas crying, thomesa is also only platonic, thominho is romantic if you want it to be but i wrote it platonically
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-11-27
Packaged: 2019-05-09 14:24:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14717792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faeryroses/pseuds/faeryroses
Summary: Please don’t remind me, please don’t remind meI’ll sleep until it’s over, fidget and roll overAnd when I wake up, greet me with a hugA body warm and loving, show me I’m not disgusting.Thomas can't live freely at the safe haven if there's so much blood on his hands. He wants to move on, but his mind cannot let him.(read as: Thomas is wracked with guilt, he's emo, he is plagued with nightmares.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> eyy first fic i've posted here ;) please tell me what u think, i love constructive criticism  
> Main inspo is the song Just Add Water, by cavetown. also later insp comes from the song Drifting, by On and On.  
> Like I said in my tags, I alter and arrange canon as I see fit, so I will explain what you need to know before each chapter as they come.  
> (past tense if it's a dream/memory, present tense if it's real life)  
> also disclaimer I marked this as having a major character death but no one dies in the real timeline of the fic. They are just memories of deaths

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So before this first chapter, I need to clarify how I altered canon to fit my needs lmao it's good to have knowledge of all 4 books (i'm excluding the Kill Order) and all three movies.
> 
> Newt's and Teresa's deaths are as they were in the books, not the movies, but everything leading up to their deaths happened as it was portrayed in the Death Cure movie. Of course I rewrote some shit to better fit the fic yknow also I know Thomas's little hut in the safe haven in the movie doesn't have a fkin window but in this it dOes!!1! it also has a real door :)
> 
> I think that's all you need to know for the first chapter, but of course if you have any questions, leave a comment and I will answer! hope u enjoy the first chapter of our Thomas being an emo lil shit

“Leave without me, Tommy, just leave me here.”

“No, we’re almost there. A little bit further and we’ll be safe.”

“Tommy, just leave me, and get out of here.” He struggled to breathe, his feet dragged. Not wanting to wear him out too much, Thomas eased him to the ground, leaned him against a wall sheltered from the fires and gunshots.

He looked Newt in his dark eyes full of resignation, trying to keep his voice steady and firm. “You have to come back with me, Newt, you have to.” His heart pounded at the sight of the black blood on Newt’s lips, the black and blue veins creeping up his neck.

“I can’t. I don’t want to.”

Thomas grabbed his hands, trying to pull him to his feet. “You have to. Come on, let’s get up,” he said urgently. He couldn’t help his voice from cracking.

Newt closed his eyes, shook his head slowly. Even when he was dying, he looked ethereal; it took Thomas’s breath away. “I don’t want to.” His voice was barely above a whisper.

“Why not?” Anger and panic twisted his words into a shout. Newt’s eyes fluttered open; he weakly squeezed Thomas’s hands. He opened his mouth but could say nothing. He just looked at Thomas with a torrent of sorrow in his eyes. Thomas’s heart sank. Newt was giving up.

He wouldn’t have that. Thomas pulled him to his feet, carrying all of his weight with Newt’s arm draped over his own shoulders. Newt, head hanging low, leaned heavily against him, unable to fight him. They were going back to the Berg, whether he wanted to or not. Thomas wasn’t giving him the choice.

“Tommy, please.”

 

-                     -                     -

 

He wakes with tears wet on his cheeks, dread pounding at his throat. Sunlight streams through the unfamiliar window shutters. Calmer now, he sits upright with a groan on the tiny bed, which is also unfamiliar. Ignoring the pain in his side, he stands and peeks out the window and sees heaven. It’s blue and white and soft and bright and warm, and kids laugh and smile as they work. It feels wrong.

Someone stops several feet away from his window. It’s Gally. He raises a hand hesitantly to wave at him. Halfheartedly, Thomas waves back.

“Thomas?” Minho’s muffled voice from behind the door startles him. The door creaks open and Minho leans against the doorframe, though his body language reads caution and hesitation. “Nice to see you’re finally awake. Do you want to help make lunch?”

Glancing back out the window, and seeing that Gally had moved on, he says, “No.” Minho stands at the door still, waiting for something more. At last, Thomas meets his gaze. “I’m gonna go back to sleep. This still hurts,” he explains, gingerly placing a hand over the bandage covering the bullet wound under his ribs. Minho nods and softly shuts the door behind him.

Thomas falls back onto the bed, eyes sore and stinging.

 

-                     -                     -

 

“KILL ME! JUST KILL ME!” The shouts seemed dim, but he knew they had been heartbreakingly deafening. The gun would have shaken as much as his hands if Newt hadn’t also been clutching it. His grip was tight on Thomas’s other wrist, too, but Thomas didn’t try to pry himself away. He couldn’t.

“I can’t, Newt.” Without words, he pleaded with Newt to let him carry him back to the Berg, where the rest of them were waiting. He begged him not to make him do this. “I can’t,” he repeated.

The fearsome storm of fury and anguish in Newt’s eyes was suddenly replaced with clarity and desolation. “Please, Tommy. Please.”

Thomas couldn’t stand it, that in order to look Newt in the eyes he had to look down the barrel of the gun. Time seemed to freeze, with Newt holding the gun to his head, lips parted in a plea. He looked so broken, already gone. Like the only reason he still had life was to let Thomas take the rest of it.

He blinked. Tears ran down his cheeks. He didn’t want Newt to be killed by the Flare. He didn’t want to lose him to insanity. But he didn’t want to have to kill him with his own hands. His vision blurred as more tears welled up and he let them fall so he could see Newt more clearly. The crackling of raging fires somewhere filled the silence as Thomas’s mind spun, searching for another way, a better way, a solution they’d missed before. But they had tried everything. There still wasn’t a cure. There wasn’t enough time to make one before Newt completely turned. There were no other options. Thomas could do nothing to save him.

Except for this.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. Newt closed his eyes.

He pulled the trigger.

 

-                     -                     -

 

Darkness envelopes him the next time he jolts awake, screaming incoherently.

Minho flings the door open, running into the room. “Thomas, what is it?!”

He can’t speak; his breaths are coming too short and too fast. Minho grips his shoulders, trying to calm him down, but Thomas can’t get the image out of his head. Newt holding the gun to his head. He can’t stop hearing the gunshot. Guilt crushes him. He killed Newt.

Sobbing, he turns away from Minho and curls into himself. It’s painful to breathe. He feels his wound open again, seeping blood into the clean bandage. Thomas feels Minho sit on the bed and pull him into a tight embrace, which takes him aback; Minho was never really one for showing affection. But he buries his face into Minho’s shoulder, trying to catch a breath and trying to stop crying, but he can’t, he can’t, he can’t —

Newt, holding a gun to his head.

Thomas hates himself for it. He hates himself for not fighting harder. He hates himself for wasting time. He hates himself for his shaky hands. He hates himself for pulling the trigger. He whispers Newt’s name over and over again, hoping he is still dreaming a horribly long and painful nightmare.

Minho’s hold is tight, and he never says a word. Even though Thomas is soaking his shirt in sweat and tears, he never makes a sound. When Thomas feels wetness on his own shoulder, he realizes that Minho is crying, too. And still he says nothing. He’s just there for Thomas, holding him together.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i couldn't wait to post the new chapter i'm so excited to share this fic idk why tho because it's honestly kind of bad anyway here's chapter 2.
> 
> again, Teresa’s death is how it happened in the books. Movie Brenda is the only Brenda that matters (Book Brenda sucks lmao) so Brenda in every fic I will ever write will be based purely on her movie representation. Also I uhh love cursing so my bros are gonna use real curse words and not just shuck/shank/klunk/slinthead/etc. Because in the movies they use real curse words too. Also I love Minho dearly. I love him.

Sometimes he dreams about Teresa.

They ran, but they didn’t run fast enough. Or maybe the timing of the universe’s happenings didn’t line up quite right. Because the building crumbled down at exactly the wrong time, and it all happened too quickly for it to be universally intentional. And somehow it caught her and not him, dragged her under but not him.

He couldn’t take it anymore. He was losing so much.

He screamed, his throat already raw. No matter how hard he pushed and pulled, he couldn’t free her from the rubble. She was already dying; she tugged at his sleeve weakly, mouthed a few words. He leaned close to hear her, grasping at her hand and letting tears run streaks down his sooty face.

Distortion from the nature of dreams made her breath cold at his ear, but the shivers down his back as she whispered had happened the same. He closed his eyes to listen, listen.

“It’s your fault,” she rasped. Her grip grew tight around his wrists. He tried to pull away, breath caught in his throat, but he couldn’t tear his eyes from hers, which were suddenly dark and bloody. “It’s your fault, Tom,” she said again, black dribbling from her lips. Thomas cried out in pain as her nails dug into his skin, and saw that black and blue veins covered her hands, and they were starting to run up his own arms where her nails had drawn blood. “You killed him!”

“No!” he shouted; his body was frozen, he couldn’t get off the ground. The fires were spreading, drawing closer.

“You killed him, Thomas, it’s your fault.”

“No!” Black ashes were crowding his vision, and he felt his soul swim, twist, turn, twirl like oil being swirled into water, shaken and settling, and his body remained tethered to the fiery earth.

“ _I_ _t’s your fault_.”

 

-                     -                     -

 

“No!” he shouts. He had thought after a couple weeks that he would stop having nightmares once the worst — the ones in which he had to relive it all — were out of the way. Obviously he’s wrong. The nightmares are still waking him in the middle of the night, and they’re getting worse; his head is making them dark and twisted. He can’t control his own mind. What is wrong with him?

He starts crying again, and becomes aware that someone came into his room. “It was Teresa this time,” he chokes out. In the daytime, when Thomas woke to sunlight instead of darkness, he had explained his dreams to Minho. And Minho admitted he had nightmares, too, but never wanted to explain them.

“What happened?” He’s shocked to hear Brenda’s voice instead of Minho’s.

He trusts her enough to tell her. “She told me it was my fault.” A fresh wave of tears spring forward, and he can’t take the silence. Brenda sits quietly next to him. “It’s not my fault, is it?”

“Never,” she says.

“I feel like it’s my fault,” he whispers, closing his eyes and leaning back against the wall. He turns his face away from Brenda so she can’t see how much he’s crying. He wants to ask where Minho is, but doesn’t want to sound rude and ungrateful that she is there for him instead.

Teresa’s face appears in his mind, but as it was in life, not like when she transformed into a Crank in his dream. He can’t see her without guilt rising in his throat threateningly.

He hates it, he _hates_ it, but the pain decides to resurface yet again, he’s sobbing yet again. Bringing his knees to his chest, he presses his face into the fabric of his pants to soak up the tears; he hates the feeling of tears on his face. Brenda takes his hand, and though he can tell she feels awkward and uncomfortable, she holds his hand gently, sweetly.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and suddenly he turns to her, wraps his arms around her. He needs to fill this void in his chest and he doesn’t know how but maybe holding someone can make it feel smaller, maybe he can trick himself and believe it is someone else he is embracing, maybe he can delude himself into breathing new life into himself and those mangled, broken bodies.

Then Thomas apologizes profusely for overstepping boundaries and pulls away, but Brenda says, “It’s okay, you do that if you have to. I promise, it’s fine, it’s okay.” She spreads her arms to invite him to hug her again, and if Thomas wasn’t already crying, he knows he would have wept at her kindness.

Holding her smaller frame to his chest makes him feel strange, like he’s a child again, cradling a stuffed animal in his arms. He imagines holding her tight enough that she dissolves into the essence of all the good that is left in the world; he imagines pulling it into his chest, filling in the holes. She rubs slow circles in his back as his breathing slows and the flow of tears starts to subside.

“It’s not your fault.”

 

-                     -                     -

 

He looked down the barrel of the gun into Newt’s eyes, wide and teary and dark and deep and desperate.

“I can’t, Newt, I can’t.”

The moment lasted forever. Tears ran a steady stream down his face and he tried to think, but he could only focus on Newt, begging to die.

His hands shook, but Newt held them steady.

“I’m sorry.”

 

-                     -                     -

 

“Thomas, wake up! Thomas!”

He wakes in a panic — there are hands grabbing at him and he can't breathe. The first light of day makes everything look flat and gray, but he feels Minho holding him down to stop Thomas from spasming too violently. His chest heaves, and he reaches to his throat, but other than the leather cord of Newt’s necklace, there's nothing there. His inability to breathe is all his own.

Thomas tries to shove Minho off of him, but he is weakened by the last traces of sleep, worn out from thrashing as he dreamed; he lays his head down, defeated. He’s trying to even out his breathing, but it isn’t working, it isn’t working, it’s too erratic for him to regain control, he can’t even fucking _breathe_ on his own. Minho’s grip loosens. He pushes Thomas’s hair away from his face, wiping at his tears and sweat with a damp cloth.

“Stop,” he croaks, though he doesn’t really mind it. He welcomes the cool touch of the cloth, savors the tenderness of human touch. Minho doesn’t stop. “I’m fine, Minho. Stop treating me like I’m a kid.”

Minho finally lifts the cloth and sets it down on the bedside table. “You need to take a bath.”

Thomas stares at the low ceiling, tries to track how each stick weaves into each other.

“Did you hear me?”

“Yeah.”

He hears Minho sigh. “Do you want to go now? The water will be warmer later, but there will also be more people around.” Thomas makes an ambiguous noise, indicating that he doesn’t care.

“Well, get up then, shuckface.”

Thomas turns onto his side, closing his eyes. Maybe Minho will get the hint and leave him to sleep more. Even though he can’t stand the nightmares when he sleeps, at least he’s not awake. Seems like real life is a worse nightmare at this point. He scoffs at himself, for he knows he is being too dramatic.

But Minho grabs Thomas under his arms and pulls him up. Thomas slumps and lets his head rest on his friends shoulder, keeping his eyes closed. “Come on, man, don’t do that. I thought you didn’t want to be treated like a kid. Get up.” He groans, face pressed into Minho’s jacket. The soft leather feels cool and familiar on his cheek, and smells faintly of something that makes his heart ache, but he can’t pinpoint why it hurts him. He lifts his head and looks at Minho closely, and quick understanding rushes forward.

“Are you wearing his jacket?” he whispers, not sure what he feels. He is mostly shocked that Minho even _has_ Newt’s jacket, the one that he kept seeing in his dreams. And another part of him is disgusted, and wounded, and horrified, and crestfallen.

Minho glances away and bites his lip before nodding quickly. He slackens his hold around Thomas at the wrong moment, for that is when Thomas feels something shatter. He sinks, grabbing at Minho’s arms to hold himself up. His vision clouds as an image flashes in his head — the last time he saw this jacket, he was holding Newt’s lifeless body in his arms, he had just shot him, he had killed him, he killed him.

He sits down on the bed again, buries his face in his hands. Despite how much he wills the tears to stay away, they push at his eyelids anyway. He lets them fall.

“I’m — I’m sorry, Thomas, I—” Minho’s hands flutter about, settling on his back but then withdrawing, grazing his neck, ghosting along his shoulder, before he just steps away. Thomas is confused as to why he is so upset about the jacket, and he hates making Minho feel bad, and he hates that he’s crying again.

“Oh my _god,_ I’m so sick of this,” he moans. He presses his hands hard into his eyes, gritting his teeth. _Stop crying, stop crying._ He suddenly remembers what he had said to Chuck what seemed like ages ago. _Don’t ever feel bad for crying. Ever._ He feels like a different person now than he was in that moment. Whipping his head up to look at Minho, he rasps, “How do you do it?”

Minho’s eyes are wide and he looks a little scared. It surprises Thomas, since Minho had so far been easily and readily there for him; he never seemed apprehensive before. But now it looks like the last thing he wants is to be there, with Thomas breaking down in front of him again. “Do what?”

Thomas searches for the right words and gives up. “How do you...not...do _this_?” he says, gesturing at himself. “How are you okay?”

Minho opens his mouth and closes it again. Thomas can tell he’s hurt; the grief is all there in his eyes, in his stance. He still exudes resilience, but it’s different than before, like his strength is stretching thin and he’s holding on to the last few threads before it completely dissolves — and Thomas doesn’t know why he didn’t see it sooner. He realizes he’s been a little selfish. Thomas wasn’t the only one who lost Newt. Everyone lost him. And Minho had known Newt for two years before Thomas met them. He forces the tears to stop.

“I’m not.” Minho sat down beside Thomas cautiously. “It’s been really hard for me, too.”

“Then why are you helping me so much? I’ve kind of been a pain in the ass.” Thomas grins weakly, and Minho shakes his head. “And I haven’t been there for you at all. I’m sorry.”

“No, no. Don’t be sorry. I can handle myself.” He stares at the ground. “Newt was my best friend, and he meant so, so much to me. But I know…” He pauses, an expression of regret on his face. “It was something else with you.” Thomas doesn’t bother trying to deny it. “And you’re my friend, too. I want to help you.”

And he’s crying again, but out of gratitude. “Thanks, man.” Words really can’t convey how he feels at the moment.

“Are we gonna keep talking about our fucking feelings or are you gonna get up and take that much-needed bath? You smell like shit.”

“I’ll get up, I’ll get up.”

“Good that.” Minho stands. “I’m not washing you, though. I’m not your mom.” Just before he leaves the room, he says, “And there’s some pain medicine here. To help with that bullet wound. Don’t overdose.” Thomas nods and sits on the edge of the bed for awhile after, waiting for the will to get up. It doesn’t come. He has to get up on his own.

He stands, strides over to the window. There are only a couple people up and about, and the sun is still just a little pink at the horizon. The ocean laps gently at the shore. Turning back into the darkness of his room, he finds a change of clothes and stops at the door. He doesn’t know how many days it’s been since they got here — all the sleeping and recovering messed up his ability to tell passage of time — and he doesn't know how many days he has slept through, but he knows this is going to be his first time out of his room.

Taking a deep breath, he opens the door. The air smells sweet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> technically it wouldn’t be his first time out of the room because he still has to go to the bathroom n stuff but whatever. Can’t mention stuff like that in really serious + poetic moments :)))))))))


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so what happened after Thomas killed Newt in my fic is deviating from both the books and the movies, and I explain the deviations in the actual writing so i won’t spoil that here. (yknow honestly I twisted everything up in my head so much that i can't even tell what i did. good luck understanding lmao) Minho did find out about Thomas killing Newt. Newt’s necklace exists in this fic, and when I first wrote this part I thought that the little cylinder screwed open and shut but then I watched the movie again and noticed that Thomas actually just like? pulls the cap off? Idk i think a cap that screws on makes more sense so I didn’t change that in my writing.
> 
> (oh, tw for self harm. it's very very mild self harm, and it's just a quick mention, but figured i would include it just in case.)

Thomas shut his eyes, choked back a horrified scream when he heard Newt’s body fall to the ground. He dropped the gun with a hiss as if it had burned him. When he could finally sit up and open his eyes, he was grateful for the tears that automatically blurred his vision. He didn’t want to see what he’d done.

Despite the nausea wracking his body, he pulled Newt’s body onto his lap, holding him tight enough that maybe his own life would bleed into the body, bring him back, make him breathe again. He could do nothing but cradle Newt’s body, silently sobbing, rocking back and forth, his hands tangled in Newts dirty and matted hair. It felt like an eternity that he spent there, crying as the fires and chaos relentlessly raged around him, without any concern for the life lost.

When he had gone completely numb, he gently laid his friend on the ground where he had fallen, squeezed the hand he had once lovingly and protectively held one last time, and stood. He stared at the lifeless body before him.

He turned away.

 

-                     -                     -

 

He’s not surprised when he jerks awake screaming with his throat already raw. What does surprise him, though, is that Brenda is already there, jumping up from a chair in the corner of the room. He distantly feels spikes of pain in his right arm, realizes with barely any feeling that it’s himself — his fingernails are digging into his skin.

Brenda rushes over to him, but he throws an arm out to stop her from coming any nearer. He feels like he might throw up; his stomach is convulsing, threatening a mess. He doubles over, breath heaving.

“Are you okay?” she asks. Thomas squeezes his eyes shut, controls his breathing, until the nausea mostly passes. His arm drops to his side and Brenda rushes to tightly hold him. It’s not exactly a hug; it’s more like she’s trying to make sure he doesn’t fall apart or dissolve.

“How could I do that to him, Brenda?” he whispers into her hair. His eyes, vacant and open, stare into the darkness as more tears fall.

“You had no other choice.”

“How could I do that? How could I—”

“You had to. There was nothing else you could have done.”

He doesn’t know if what she is saying is helping or hurting more. He can’t tell. Again his breath leaves him when the memory rushes back.

“Oh my god. And I _left_ him. I left him there, I left him there how could I leave him there like that how could I leave his body _there_ to just burn or rot or—”

“No, no, it’s okay, Thomas—”

“No, it’s not! I left him there! He didn’t deserve—”

“Thomas, listen!”

“I left him—”

“Thomas!” She pulls away and grips his shoulders, finally catching his attention and shutting him up. “It’s fine. We found him and brought him back with us. I thought you knew already, but… Minho, Frypan and I carried him back to the Berg after you took off.”

Thomas is at a loss for words. “What?”

“Yeah. I guess you never saw since you blacked out as soon as we pulled you up. But we brought him home, gave him a proper burial. Even had a little funeral or whatever. It’s okay, Thomas,” she reassures, looking unwaveringly into his eyes. “He’s here with us.”

His vision fogs, but his mind clears. An invisible weight is lifted from his shoulders. “He is?”

“Yes. We can go see him if you want. Minho and Gally made a little marker—” she stops talking when Thomas shakes his head.

“No. No, I don’t want to see him.”

Brenda’s eyes soften. “Thomas, I think it’d be good for you. You need—”

“No!” he shouts. Immediately he regrets it, and draws away from her in guilt. “No, Brenda,” he repeats, taking great care to sound gentler. “I don’t want to remind myself— I don’t want to see that it’s—”

“Okay, I get it.” She takes his hand and holds it even when he tries to pull away. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have pushed you.”

He stares down at the wrinkled bed sheets. “Can you leave? I want to go back to sleep.”

“I can stay here if you want. I was sleeping in that chair just in case you woke up. Minho and I have been taking turns.”

Thomas can’t believe that anyone would be willing to do that for him, to watch over him and keep him safe. Why would they want to do that? They have enough to deal with on their own.

“I don’t want you to waste your time on me any more than you have. You should leave.” Brenda doesn’t let go of his hand, so he pries her fingers off. “Brenda.”

“Um. Okay.” She stands up, stops by the chair to pick up a water bottle. “Oh, hey, here’s this…” She holds up a thin loop of black leather, taut from the pendant weighing it down. Thomas recognizes it with a start and reaches out for it, palm upturned.

“That’s mine.”

“I know. I had to take it off of you so you didn’t strangle yourself. It, uh, kind of opened a little but it’s still fine.” Thomas says nothing, and just keeps his arm outstretched. Brenda drops it in his hands and his fingers close tight around it. “Okay. I’ll go.” She opens the door, and Thomas feels a twinge of guilt.

“I’m sorry,” he calls. “I didn’t mean to be...ungrateful.” He knows it’s not the right word, but he feels like maybe there isn’t a word for how he’s acting.

“No worries,” she says, and then she’s gone.

Thomas blinks the tears away, and closes his eyes, but keeps seeing Newt with the gun to his head. The image haunts him. And suddenly his voice echoes from the past.

_You wanna know why I have this limp, Tommy? Did I ever tell you?_

Remembering the venom in his voice makes Thomas wince. Shaking his head to push the memory away, he decides to look at the necklace. Newt’s necklace. He already knows what is encased inside the tiny capsule, though he had never taken it out. Still he feels he isn’t ready to look at it; he has a suspicion of what it says, and can’t face it just yet.

Thomas screws it tightly closed again and pulls it over his head. The cylinder rests heavily over his sternum. And though he lays his head upon his (damp) pillow again, and though he feels exhaustion pulling at the edges of his consciousness, he cannot close his eyes. He cannot sleep, he cannot see the nightmares again.

But he does.

He sleeps and sees the nightmares again.

 

-                     -                     -

 

He stood right outside the door to his little hut, facing the shore. In the distance, he saw someone else standing on the shore, staring out towards the ocean. Thomas immediately recognized him. He waited, assuming his eyes were deceiving him and the boy would disappear soon, assuming something would happen. When he realized nothing was supposed to happen, he took a step forward.

And it was like he was moving through mud. His feet dragged, and for some reason when he looked down to see what was wrong, he seemed to move even slower. Unease crept in. He snapped his head back up, relieved to see the boy hadn’t left yet.

“Newt!” he called. He pushed harder against the invisible sludge, attempting to break into a run, but he wasn’t getting anywhere. Although he inched forward, he seemed to be getting farther and farther away. It reminded him of having to run up the sand dunes in the Scorch. “Newt!” he called again, but Newt did not turn, did not even move. He just kept staring at the ocean. The wind continued to tousle his hair, the waves continued to lap at his bare feet, as Thomas struggled with controlling his own body. Did Newt even hear him?

“Newt!” Thomas shouted over the wind. And at last he turned around. At this point Thomas was so far away he couldn't see Newt’s face. But he could see the blood. He was afraid, not entirely sure why, other than for the obvious gore, but his fears were quelled slightly at the relief that Newt heard him. “Newt!” he called once more, hoping Newt would approach him instead since he himself couldn’t get any closer.

But Newt turned towards the ocean again. Thomas’ eyes stung. “I’m sorry.” His words were swept away in the wind. He needed to be sure Newt heard him. “Newt, _please_!” he screamed, so strong it made his throat ache. “I’m _sorry_!”

 

-                     -                     -

 

Thomas opens his eyes. He is quiet. A nice change of pace.

His room is shrouded in darkness, but he sees two figures standing by the door. They are whispering to each other. “Minho? Brenda?” he rasps.

“Hey.” The whispering cuts off and Minho crosses the room to stand awkwardly at his bedside. “We weren’t sure if we should wake you up.” He turns back to Brenda and makes a vague gesture. She nods and leaves the room silently.

“What did I do?” Thomas asks. He doesn’t _feel_ like he's been screaming or thrashing.

“It was just general tossing and turning. You were saying something, too, over and over, but Brenda and I didn’t understand. She thought we should wake you up before it got worse.”

“Oh.” Thomas sits up and lets Minho sit next to him.

“You slept for almost 20 hours again.”

“Oh,” he repeats. He feels he might cry at any moment, so he says as little as possible, moves as little as possible, thinks as little as possible. But there’s a cavity in his chest; he can’t quite remember the dream he had, but he can recall a feeling. It’s unpleasant. The more he tries to remember specifics, the more he is filled with an acrid emptiness. He turns to Minho.

“Um.” Thomas isn’t sure how to say it without being weird. “Is it okay if I, um, hug you, or hold you, or whatever — I think it will make me feel better.” He tries to sound sure of himself, not as awkward as he feels, but he can still hear the self-consciousness in his words.

“Uh, sure,” Minho says, hesitant.

“You’re sure it’s fine?”

“Yeah, man, it’s okay.” Minho readjusts himself so he’s sitting with his back to the wall and spreads his arms. “Come on, man, bring it in,” he says, his voice slightly mocking. Thomas wants to laugh but doesn’t feel it. So he just scoots closer and loops his arms around Minho’s waist, resting his head against the dip below his shoulder. One of Minho’s arms settles on Thomas’s back.

Automatically he feels the tension and worry melt away. Human contact always does that for him. He breathes deeply and closes his eyes. Minho’s heartbeat is steady. It calms him.

He feels like he might drift off to sleep, and in a subconscious effort to stay awake, he invites his bad thoughts to return. Guilt picks at his brain; he sighs. Muttering into Minho’s shirt, he says, “How can you forgive me for what I did?”

“What?” Thomas feels Minho speak more than he hears him.

“How can you forgive me for what I did to him? I’m awful. You should hate me.”

“You aren’t awful, and I don’t hate you.”

“But you should.” Suddenly a tear escapes from his eye, even though he had been trying _so hard_ not to let it happen again.

“Thomas, I don’t hate you. And I never could.”

“But what if I was a rapist?”

“ _Are_ you?”

“No. But what if I was?”

“That would never happen. So I could never hate you.”

And still Thomas doesn’t believe him for some reason. The tenderness and careful compassion in Minho’s voice feels fake, even though Thomas knows he wouldn’t lie to him. He’s crying softly, soundlessly, and he presses his face into Minho’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry, anyway.” _I know you’ll never forgive me,_ he thinks, recognizing that though Minho denied hating Thomas, he never said he forgave him for killing Newt. “I’m sorry.”

Minho says nothing and merely moves to press a gentle kiss to Thomas’s temple. It takes him by surprise, but Thomas appreciates the intimacy. _Thank you._ He can’t bring himself to say it out loud, but he hopes Minho knows. _Thank you, thank you, thank you for being my friend._

He gets stuck in the haziness of the edge of sleep, and in many ways it’s better than being asleep or even being awake. It feels like a pleasant hum, like the sound of cicadas on a warm summer evening. In the darkness behind his eyes, he forgets.

The numbness is impermanent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> leave a comment if you want, i love love love constructive criticism please help me be a better writer lmao (i am so painfully aware that i have such a passive voice.. i try to get rid of my passivity but damn it's hard!! i saw a tip on how to recognize passive voice [if you can add "by zombies" to the end of the phrase then it's passive] but it doesn't work for a lot of cases and i have no trouble identifying passive voice. my issue is getting rid of it and finding a better way to phrase things. yikes.)
> 
> ok so i just graduated today so i'm gonna have a lot of time on my hands now! so hopefully i will finish writing the last couple chapters soon and then post them. i'm trying to space out the chapters so that I have time to write the ending but i'm still not getting closer to finishing it lmao aaah kill me


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to post again before my trip overseas (I'm going to Japan for a month!) because I don't know when I'll be able to update it next!
> 
> In the movies I’m pretty sure that they never imply that those names are not their real names, so the thing with Brenda is basically canon I swear. I inferred it from what the movies provided, especially that one scene with Brenda and Thomas in TST (movie). I’m including that scene as part of this fic’s canon as well as the history of the Glade from The Fever Code. And if you read the Fever Code then some things will make more sense to you than if you haven't read it sry lol
> 
> also we're welcoming Frypan into the world of not being a Mention-Only!!! yay! also should've mentioned earlier but Brenda is bi! yay pride month!!
> 
> anywayyy uhh hope u enjoy

The next time he wakes, it is only a couple hours later. It is light outside, but still early enough in the morning that hardly anyone is up and about. The world is so quiet, so still. There is not a single thought in his mind as he sits up and blinks slowly at the dust motes falling in slow motion by the window. A subtle peace like none he’s ever known pushes at his seams. He doesn’t want to ruin it by making any movements, or making any sound, or even by thinking the wrong thoughts. So he sits and watches the unmoving world exist before him.

And then Minho opens the door. While the peacefulness isn’t disrupted, the barricade between Thomas and the world shatters, and time unfreezes.

“Mornin’, you ugly shank. How long have you been up?”

“You don’t have to ask that every time you see me.” He pauses before answering, “I don’t know how long I’ve been awake. Maybe ten minutes.”

Minho enters the room, shutting the door softly behind him. He sits in the chair by the window. “How did you sleep?” His voice is cautious, gentle.

“Good, I think. I feel fine. I don’t remember having a dream or anything.”

“That’s good! Making progress, then?”

Thomas isn’t sure what that means. “I guess.” Suddenly his skin is itching; he needs to get out of this room. He stands up, body aching. “I’m leaving now, so…”

Minho stands up as well. “Where are we going?”

“Just walking around. I don’t want to be stuck in here any longer.” He kind of wants to be alone right now, but knows that he needs someone. He doesn’t know if he can stand the silence on his own out there.

 

-                     -                     -

 

_It’s your fault._

He held the gun to Newt’s head, hands trembling.

“Please, Tommy.” His eyes were wide.

_It’s your fault._

He cradled the body, tears blurring his vision.

He was standing, turning, stumbling away.

_It’s your fault._

He was running with Teresa, smoke and dust clogging his throat.

He screamed as she fell.

_It’s your fault._

He was running with her, and it is rewritten.

This time he pushed her. She fell.

_It’s your fault._

_No!_

He saw a flash of Chuck’s face contorted with laughter. The colors of the dream changed. It became warm, with suggestions of bright green and deep yellow. He saw Newt smiling and squinting in the bright sunlight, saw Teresa’s bright eyes the first time she saw him. He was running in the maze, and he could sense Minho at his side. He saw Alby staring into the distance somewhere and standing firm. Chuck, laughing again. He even saw a flash of Gally.

All of his closest friends. All the people he loved most in the world.

The sounds of the ocean invaded his mind. Suddenly the colors were dark and tormenting again, even though he wanted so much to find solace in the noise. No specific images surfaced from the murk. Just echoes from his past, agonizing heartache accompanying them. Whispers, inhuman shrieks, tortured screams. _“I’m sorry.”_

 

-                     -                     -

  

Thomas hasn't gotten around the island much; he’s just been to his room, the shore (to take baths), the "kitchen" and toilet, which was quite literally a hole in the ground. A structure had been built around it for privacy of course, and it’s tucked behind a slope covered in overgrown weeds, far from their main settlement. Despite the long walks there, he still hasn’t managed to see much of what they built there. And when he goes on little walks with Minho, they only wander along the shore, far from the housing.

In the kitchen once again, he’s trying to help Frypan make food. They’re preparing some kind of cookie and Thomas doesn’t really know what he’s doing. “It would be a lot better if we had lemons,” Fry promises, “but I couldn’t let these poppyseeds go to waste. Here, fold the flour in while I pour it.” He pushes the shallow dish closer to Thomas. (Fry had explained that the bowls they already had were too small, and it was too difficult to carve a proper, sizable bowl so he had done what he could with the piece of warped wood he found.)

His hands are already covered in dough, so he doesn’t mind the instruction. Fry steadily pours in the flour while Thomas folds it into the mix, careful not to spill any over the sides of the dish.

He’s grateful Fry is willing to deal with Thomas’s incompetence in the kitchen; this new hobby takes his mind off some of the trouble. And Minho insists it’s helping him calm down, or "neutralize" as he said. He doesn’t know if he believes that to be true, but he wants it to be. It can be stressful at times, because it’s always stressful when he doesn’t understand something for the first time, or can’t get something right. For the most part, though, he has noticed that he sleeps a more regular schedule (he can sleep for more than two hours at a time, and he rises with the sun), but can’t tell if that can be attributed to his time spent in the kitchen.

It gets more difficult to thoroughly mix the dough as it gets thicker, so Fry takes over kneading it. Thomas stands there awkwardly, and Fry glances up. “It’s okay, you can go if you want.”

“You sure? I can help more.”

“All that’s left to do is ball the dough and then put it in that funky oven, if you can call it that. And you don’t like that part.” He grins. “You can leave, I’m fine.”

“Uh, okay.” He uses a rag to wipe off most of the dough clinging to his skin, dipping his hands into the tub of water to wash away the rest. “Thanks, Fry.”

“No problem, man. Thanks for all your help!” Thomas smiles at Fry and leaves.

He takes a few steps away from the tiny building and stops, not sure where to go now.  Staring out before him, he again notes that he hasn’t seen much of the island. And he has a sudden urge to see the memorial stone again. So he wanders, walking past as many other buildings as he can, peeking into the doors and windows when he can without being too nosy. Most are other personal rooms, empty in the daytime. They are certainly an upgrade from the cots in which they had to sleep the first couple weeks here, even if they are a bit hurriedly and crudely constructed.

Keeping his distance from the main gathering area, where most people ate meals and spent down-time, he approaches the stone. He raises a hand up to it, his fingers brush lightly across the names carved in the stone. He recognizes more names there than he wants to. Chuck, Newt, Teresa, Alby, Winston, Ben, Zart, Jeff, Clint, Jack, George, Mary, Rachel. Looking at the names he doesn’t know is painful, too. Sure, he hadn't met a lot of those people, but knowing they were loved makes him ache with loss nonetheless.

He lets his hand drop to his side again, sighing. He doesn’t want to feel sad right now, but there isn’t much else to feel when standing here, staring at a list of dead people all unfairly taken from the world far too soon.

“Hey.” The sudden voice startles him. He glances over to see who had snuck up on him.

“Hi, Brenda.” He looks back at the names engraved in the stone. They’re quiet, standing companionably for a few minutes.

Brenda breaks the silence. “You remember when I told you about my brother? George?”

Thomas nods. “Yeah,” he says, suspecting the next words out of her mouth. He recalls their conversation in the tent after she had just gotten a dose of the serum, and remembers how even then he recognized her brother’s name. He hadn’t said anything or thought too much of it; George was a common enough name. But he had remembered seeing that name carved into the Glade wall, seeing that name on the grave marker in the woods before Ben attacked him.

“Minho told me he’s dead.”

Thomas looks down. He had known it was coming. “I’m sorry.”

“He was in the Maze — or the Glade, whatever you call it — with them years before you came. Minho remembers him. George was—” she clears her throat. “He was their leader.” Her voice breaks, and when Thomas lifts his gaze to look at her, he sees she is smiling, her eyes shining. “He was a good leader, Minho said. Strong, but kind and friendly.” She clears her throat again as she looks down to rummage through her pockets. Her hair is tied back, so Thomas doesn’t miss the tear falling.

She pulls out the little metal box she had shown him before, with her brother’s picture inside. Opening the box to gaze at the picture, she continues, “Minho said he was really tall, too. Which—” She laughs lightly. “Well, it’s weird. I only remember him being my _tiny_ older brother.”

“What happened?” Thomas asks. But if he knows WICKED at all — and he knows them very well — George’s death was brutal.

Brenda’s face sinks with sadness. “He was stung by a Griever. WICKED had sent up a serum, because they were planning it all. They stung him on purpose to test their serum, which didn’t work. And, um—” She grimaces, dialing back the bitterness in her voice. “Alby had to kill him.” Thomas feels a pang of sadness, familiarity with the tragedy. “I, uh, I saw his name on the rock here—” she points at his name, “—and I asked around until I found out.”

His eyes burn; he might cry. “I’m sorry. That’s...really terrible.”

“It’s okay,” she says, sniffing. “At least I know what happened. And he was buried by people who cared for him, which is better than most can say for their families.” She glances up at Thomas and smiles, though it doesn’t reach her eyes, and notices the sadness in his. “Hey, don’t worry about me. I’m fine, really. Sorry I had to make you feel bad for me.”

Thomas just shakes his head.

“Anyway,” Brenda says, wiping her eyes and sniffling. “Have any plans for today? You could help me and the others build more huts. Especially because you haven’t helped with anything since we’ve been here.” She cracks a joking smile. “All you do is help Fry in the kitchen, and he tells me the only thing you do there is eat whatever he makes.”

“That is _not_ true!” he insists. “I just helped him make cookies!”

“Sure you did. How did they taste? Are there any left for me?”

“Brenda, I didn’t eat them!”

She laughed and lightly punched his arm. “I’m just teasing. Alright, you need to come talk to the others. There’s this girl I met, Miyoko. I think you’re gonna like her. She's  _so_ cool. Jorge is training her on how to fly the Berg so she can go out for supplies in a month or so, and...” As Brenda gushes about the girl, Thomas lets himself be led away, feeling okay for the first time in awhile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this chapter is so short, i might go back later and add more stuff to the first part.
> 
> also uhhh Miyoko was in TFC but she was badass even at age 12 so I think I'm going to develop her into a real character with real depth because Dashner would never lmao (does this count as an OC then??? whomst the fuck knows)
> 
> also if anyone is interested I made an aesthetic board on Pinterest for this fic lolololol  
> https://www.pinterest.com/buckmanbarnes/fics/sleep-until-its-over/


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas being a hopeless romantic, a fool and a sap. He loves the cliche and cheesy romance shit. (He’s also a fool because he makes everything way too difficult for himself.)
> 
> And Thomas decides to finally read Newt’s letter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m back! after months of inactivity on this fic! i am SO sorry !! i got stuck with this chapter, and in the meantime i started writing four (yes, four) other fanfics (i've posted a few chapters of one of them, if you haven't read it yet lmao) 
> 
> There are some references to scenes from the Fever Code. I rewrote some of Newt’s letter, but I didn’t have to do much because it’s mostly all there lmao I just added some stuff, changed a couple words. Hopefully it still sounds authentic?? And a very very brief ref to a scene in the beginning of TMR (book) with Newt, which wasn't in the movie but there was a similar scene with Alby
> 
> I hope you like this (long) chapter!

When he woke up to warm sunlight and calm silence, he knew something was different. Not wrong, per se, just different. He opened his eyes blearily, shifted in the bed, and immediately knew.

In his bed curled next to him, Newt lay asleep.

A small part of him knows he is dreaming. He knows it isn’t real. But he lets the itching in his head fade. He lets himself believe it is real, just for this brief moment.

Newt’s face expressed a gentleness only possible in sleep. His hair was a mess. Thomas smiled fondly. And then it disappeared before he could truly savor the moment. The dream let him know that it did last longer than what he saw, but he wanted to experience it all. Jumping from scene to scene meant he lost the reality of it, which was what he wanted most.

They were in the kitchen. Thomas made a mess and Newt laughed. It was beautiful. Newt snapped a floury towel at Thomas, said something inaudibly, smiling the whole time.

And again it was snatched from him, leaving him breathless.

More little snippets of life on the island with him. Newt furrowed deeper into the covers, smiling sheepishly. Thomas brushed Newt’s hair from his face as they sat at a bonfire. Newt tossed a pair of dirty gloves to him. Thomas fell back onto the bed and Newt followed, breathless. Newt and Thomas held hands as they strolled along the shore; he looked at Newt, and his heart ached with joy and longing for the simple and lovely. But something unnerved him. Something was wrong, something was missing.

He focused on Newt’s eyes. There was something hauntingly _wrong_. Suddenly he felt detached from his body. He slowly drifted away from his own body, started seeing himself from the outside. It’s wrong, it’s wrong, it’s wrong.

But Newt was there. He smiled.

 

-                     -                     -

 

Remembering last night’s dream makes him ache. He wants so badly just to be able to see Newt again, to press a kiss to his cheek again, to entwine their hands together again. He squeezes his eyes shut. Despite the horrible pain in his chest, he does not cry. He is drained.

Thomas rolls over in his bed. Even after a week of trying to get back to a normal sleeping schedule — going to bed at a reasonable time, sleeping through the whole night, waking up early — he still fails to fall asleep when he wants to. It’s unbearable. It means he gets even less sleep, leading to days full of grumpiness, grogginess, and feeling like he’s still in a dream.

That whole day he had wandered around the island, lending a helping hand wherever he could, tried helping Brenda build more huts, but had felt so tired, and consequently performed so poorly, that he had been dismissed from every job he tried.

And it really didn’t help that all day he looked over his shoulder, expecting to see him.

The dream had tricked him cruelly. He had kept turning around when he felt an itch, as if sensing someone standing close to him. Always he thought he might see Newt, but always he was wrong. No one was ever there. Even though he knew nothing would come of it, he had visited every site at which he had seen Newt in his dream. He hoped to feel a presence there; he had closed his eyes, wishing that his wishing would bring him back, but each time he opened his eyes he was unsurprised. Disappointed, nonetheless.

And now he lies awake, and feels the itch again. He sits up slowly in bed, looks around the dark room. Other than the white moon visible through his window, he can see nothing at all. Of course no one is there. But he can’t shake the feeling.

Groaning, he falls back onto the bed, reminding himself of reality and of the people that _are_ close. _Minho, Brenda, Frypan, Gally, Jorge, Aris, Harriet, Vince, Sonya,_ he chants. _Minho, Brenda, Frypan, Gally, Jorge, Aris, Harriet, Vince, Sonya._ As he whispers their names into the dark, he sees their faces behind his eyes.

When he feels himself drifting off to sleep, his eyes snap open. He doesn’t want to sleep; what if he has another horribly realistic, horribly wonderful dream? But the pain and fatigue of keeping his eyes open is too much. His eyes stay closed longer than usual when he blinks. It’s immediate relief, but for some reason he can’t let go of wakefulness.

But he knows that he has been getting a little better. Better than a couple weeks ago, surely. He no longer constantly contemplates death. He is starting to wean off the pain medication as his physical injuries heal, and it’s caused some mood drops, but he can mostly go about his days normally. (Whatever “normal” really means. He isn’t sure what a normal life entails.) Still, some days are horrible. Some days he just lays in bed, staring at the wall. The only movements he would make on those days were when he closed his eyes, feigning sleep, when Minho or Brenda came in. (Once, Minho knelt at his bedside, said, “I know you’re awake, Thomas. You can’t do this.” After a brief pause during which Thomas did nothing, he continued. “I’m here for you, man. I know what you’re going through more than anybody else. I do. But I need you to get up.” Thomas kept his eyes closed, biting back the apology. Minho sighed, stood up.) And when they left, he would open his eyes again. He can’t keep his eyes closed for very long anymore, even though he longs for the comfort that darkness provides. Sleeping is torture; sometimes he goes over two days without a blink of sleep. Though it doesn’t happen as often anymore, sometimes he sleeps for days on end, trapped in a dark place in his mind.

He _wants_ to sleep. Oh God, he would give anything for eight (hell, he would take four) hours of continual sleep. More importantly, he fears he is starting to forget what Newt looks like, and the image always seems to be clear in his dreams. He wants to revisit that. He can’t forget. For a moment he considers finding a way to contact whatever remains of WICKED, if anything does remain, just for a picture of Newt. Because he knows they had plenty. But quickly he shrugs that idea off; even if it is possible, it’d be completely stupid.

But at the same time, the idea of dreaming terrifies him. Haunting memories come to him in his dreams. Or perhaps they are simply dreams, no reality attached to them at all. Despite how much he doubts that thought, he holds onto it tightly. The images of ominous green light and pearlescent flesh in domed glass cages are too gruesome for him to imagine they come from his own past. And sometimes he sees Newt’s face twisted in anger, and Minho and Alby, too, strangely enough. The moment always lasts an eternity as he stands frozen, unable to move or speak.

Thinking about these nightmares has erased any inkling of possible sleep.

Sighing in defeat, he throws the covers off and stands up. He paces the room, but the space is so small it makes him dizzy. He stares out the window, but there’s nothing interesting to see. He tries to read a book, but he can’t find his flashlight. He looks for his flashlight, but there’s no light for him to find it. And he doesn’t trust himself to light a candle. He hums a little tune under his breath, but it leaves the bitter taste of nostalgia in his mouth. He counts sheep, but he feels childish.

He envisions the most peaceful place he can imagine. The Glade comes to mind. Despite how horrible it had been, it is still the calmest his life has been. As far as he can remember, at least. Desperate for sleep, he allows the daydream to continue.

The green is such a deep and bright olive green, so different from the yellow greens of the island. The wind, so gentle it’s like it hardly exists. Wildflowers sprouting along the vine-draped walls. The smell of sweat, and burning, and midnight. His cot rocking back and forth even if he moves just the slightest bit. (He doesn’t think of the hand over his mouth.) Focusing on what that gentle movement used to feel like, eventually he drifts into sleep.

 

-                     -                     -

 

And this time he dreamt that he was back in the Glade, except none of the chaos had ensued. Still there, months later, he’d found his place in the kitchen with Frypan, surprisingly. (In his dream, he was _good_ at cooking.) At the moment, he sat among tall grasses with yellow flowers piled in his lap. Newt sat with him, twirling a flower stem in between two fingers. In the early morning, just after the Runners had left, but before anyone else had woken, usually was the best time to be alive. They wove flower crowns, pollen staining their fingers. As Thomas leaned forward to place the black-eyed susan and dandelion crown on Newt’s head, rearranging it to nestle safely in his hair, he pressed a tiny, gentle kiss to his cheek. Newt smiled and kissed him back, tucking a black-eyed susan behind Thomas’s ear.

He had another dream that he was too embarrassed to think about, even though he told Minho about it later when he noticed Thomas behaving differently. Minho laughed and teased him briefly (but without mercy), which made everything feel more normal, despite Thomas still feeling awkward for having that kind of dream.

 

-                     -                     -

 

Thomas sits on a rock by the ocean, arms wrapped around his knees pulled tight to his chest. This has become his favorite spot on the entire island: the perfect distance away from the other islanders that he could see them and hear their voices but not pick out any words, and they could see him, too — Minho had told him not to wander too far — and it has a great view.

The waves lap against the rock, and the sound is hypnotizing. He stares at the horizon, mesmerized by how he could _see_ the curve of the earth. He’d never been able to see that before. Though he knows it is impossible, he wants to swim out to where the earth curves, wants to feel it himself. But he does not move from where he sits.

Suddenly he remembers the necklace he is wearing. He stretches his legs out, one hand drifting to hold the tiny metal cylinder. It’s warm from being pressed against his chest.

For probably the thousandth time Thomas opens the cylinder, but this time he keeps it open for longer than five seconds. He holds it up to his eye as if it’s a telescope through which he might be able to see the almost-setting sun. A flicker of the dream he had comes back to him, and he sighs. Then he finally tugs out the tight scroll of paper, screwing the cylinder shut again and letting the empty container fall back to his chest.

As soon as he unfolds it and reads, ‘Dear Thomas,’ he has to fold it back up and shut his eyes. He stops himself from stuffing it back into the cylinder. (Actually he doesn’t know how he would put it back in. How did Newt manage to fit it inside in the first place?) After another long, long ( _long_ ) moment of staring out at the ocean, he tries reading the letter again.

> Dear Thomas,
> 
> This is the first letter I can remember writing. Obviously, I don't know if I wrote any before the Maze. But, even if it's not my first, it's likely to be my last. I want you to know that I'm not scared. Well, not of dying, anyway. I used to be afraid of living; it was hard to have a reason to keep trying. But I’m not afraid of dying anymore. It's more forgetting. It's losing myself to this virus — that's what scares me, since I’ve already lost so much. So every night I've been saying their names out loud. Alby, Winston, Chuck. And I repeat them over and over like a prayer and it all comes flooding back.

Thomas remembers how he did the same thing, but with everyone who was still with him, at the safe haven. Guilt crashes over him, rougher than the waves against the rock he sits on. He tries to be kind and understanding to himself: he hadn’t wanted to — couldn’t — think about everyone he had lost. It would’ve been too painful, considering the state he’s in. But now he feels terrible for pushing them out of his head. They deserve to be remembered. Especially by the person who led them blindly to their deaths.

Tears threaten to spill, and he caves.

> Just the little things like when the sun used to hit the Glade at that perfect moment right before it slipped beneath the walls. And I remember the taste of Frypan's stew. I never thought I'd miss that stuff so much. And I remember you. I remember the first time you came up in the Box, just a scared little Greenie who couldn't even remember his own name. From that moment you ran into the Maze, I knew I would follow you anywhere. And I have. You gave me reasons to keep trying.

By this point he can’t control himself. He wipes the tears from his eyes so he can see clearly enough to keep reading.

> If I could do it all over again, I would. Because I know that even if I had to live through all the pain, and hopelessness, and tragedy again, you would always come into my life at some point, to help me see what good exists in the world. And I wouldn't change a thing about that. My hope for you is when you're looking back, years from now, you'll be able to say the same, and be able to continue finding reasons to keep going. The future is in your hands now, Tommy. I know you'll find a way to do what's right. You always have. Take care of everyone for me. And take care of yourself. You deserve to be happy. Thank you for being my reason.
> 
> Goodbye, love.
> 
> Newt.

Thomas doesn’t know what to do. The world feels broken. At the horizon, the sky looks like it doesn’t quite line up with the sea; he feels himself sinking into the stone beneath him. More than anything he wishes the letter would have made him feel better, or feel okay with what happened. If Newt could be at peace, Thomas should, too. But instead he realizes even more what he’s lost — waking up next to him, sleepy morning conversations, building life and community at the island together, making messes in the kitchen, walks along the shore, more nights around bonfires. And he’s lost all that.

Just when he believes he’s been getting better, everything shatters again. He’s not sure where to go from here, or what he’s supposed to do. Thomas carefully folds the letter into a square and tucks it into his pants pocket as he wipes his face dry.

He wishes he hadn’t read the letter. And that’s the only thought in his head as he watches the sun finally start to crawl behind the gentle ripples of the waves. That’s the only thing he thinks when Minho clambers up the rock to sit next to him. He can’t think anything else as Minho asks what he’s been doing, how he’s feeling, if he’s hungry, before Minho finally lapses into silence. As the sky darkens, the air grows colder. Thomas scoots closer to Minho and leans into him, seeking warmth. Minho takes Thomas's hand away from where he had been clutching the cylinder on the necklace, and he doesn’t let go. Thomas is fine with that.

“Let’s go back,” Minho says when the last of the sun sinks into the black waters. Thomas sits up straight, leaning back to look at the stars. He remembers something Newt said a while ago; when they left the Glade, it had been because of Thomas that it was the first time any of them saw the stars. “Thomas, did you hear me? Are you ignoring me?”

“No, I’m not.” Thomas stares at one bright star directly above him and it’s like every other star fades into the blackness. He looks back to Minho. “Okay, I’m ready to go now. Sorry.”

“It’s okay, I’m just…” He doesn’t continue, but starts climbing back down the rock. Thomas follows. “You should eat something,” Minho says when Thomas lands on both feet. “Fry grilled some fish.”

Thomas is about to say he isn’t hungry, but realizes that isn’t true. And grilled fish sounds pretty good. “I could eat.”

“Good.” As they walk back towards the kitchen in the dark, they don’t speak. Thomas keeps thinking of the letter. He shouldn’t have read it.

_...since I’ve already lost so much..._

_...over and over like a prayer..._

_I remember you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have the last two chapters planned out, and I’m super excited to write them. 
> 
> also i am participating in NaNoWriMo this year, and this is one of the three things I'll be working on! so i will have this completely done before the month is over
> 
> leave a comment if you would like!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS CONTAIN SPOILERS don't read the chapter notes if you don't want this chapter spoiled for you and if you're okay not knowing the warnings
> 
> The book I mentioned Thomas reading was That Inevitable Victorian Thing, by E.K. Johnston

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for suicidal thoughts and suicide attempt

Even though he is still waking up too late, he has fallen into a routine. When he wakes up, he sits in bed for a couple minutes, staring at the ceiling. (Sometimes these minutes are nice, but sometimes they’re deadly or boring. This morning they’re a strange combination of lethal and calm.) Then he gets up and makes his bed. He changes into a clean set of clothes for the day. He opens the window, then he heads out to go to the bathroom. Today he decides to touch base back at his hut afterwards, just to be by himself until lunch. Unable to keep his focus for too long, he’s in the middle of reading three different books. He does manage to finish the book about the polyamorous princess (he doesn’t know where these books came from) before he goes to lunch.

At the kitchen, Frypan greets him so cheerfully it takes Thomas by surprise; he assumes Fry is happy to have another cook in the kitchen with him. One of the girls from group B started helping out, and she’d brought along a couple of the younger kids who wanted to learn. And the food quality has increased, too.

Outside, Thomas finds Minho, who’s currently in a conversation with Gally. “Hey,” Thomas says to Minho’s back. His friend turns around, eyes brightening when he sees him. He finishes chewing his food as he gestures for Thomas to sit next to him on the bench, and he does.

“Hey, Thomas. How’re you doing?” Minho pulls Thomas into a quick side-hug. “Did you sleep okay?”

“Yes. And I said you can stop asking me that every time you see me.”

“I forgot. Sorry.” Minho waits for Thomas to nod before flashing a grin and turning to resume his conversation with Gally.

For probably the hundredth time, he gets irritated with the sheer amount of people there on the island. Who _are_ all these people? He doesn’t know more than twenty of them at most, probably. And yeah, that’s most likely his fault. But still. There’s so many people. Why are there so many people? Why are they all here? Why is _he_ here? He obviously doesn’t deserve to be there. He obviously isn’t meant to be there. Just consider all of his near-death experiences. _Something_ wants him gone. Shouldn’t it have it’s way?

And it doesn’t help his current state of mind that the ending of the book, where the two lovers have a pseudo-happy ending, is still fresh in his mind. They couldn’t even be together in the right way, but still he found himself… jealous.

Thomas thinks of the letter again. With a glance towards the memorial rock, he is reminded of Newt saying he repeated the names of people they’d lost. Another rush of shame turns in his stomach as he remembers doing the exact opposite of that. He tries to be kind to himself, reasoning that he is too fragile to think about everyone he lost; it’s better for him to think about those that are still with him. It’s better for his health.

But it still makes him feel guilty.

And he knows Vince is upset at him for slacking off, not doing his part around the island. He’s been spending way too much time sleeping and … well, he doesn’t really know how he fills his days. But he knows he isn’t helping nearly enough. He’s been a burden the whole time. And it’s been at least a month. How irritated must Vince be? Why hasn’t Vince confronted him yet about it? Minho must be warding him off. And in return, Thomas ignores him when Minho tries to wake him up, never even thanks him for everything he does.

God, he feels _so_ guilty.

 _..._ _see what good exists in the world._

Suddenly a sob breaks loose from Thomas’s chest. His eyes burn hot with heavy tears.

“Thomas, are you okay?” Minho lays a hand on Thomas’s shaking shoulders. “What happened? What’s wrong?” He sounds like he’s trying to restrain the panic pushing his words. Gally is concerned, but Thomas hears Minho tell him he could, and should, leave — he has it under control.

Thomas can’t answer, so he just leans into Minho, hoping his friend understands that he has to just wait until he can catch his breath, can see again. He can’t tell if he’s annoying Minho or not, if Minho is okay with this, he hopes he is, he hopes he is, he couldn’t bear it if he is _still_ a burden, an inconvenience, an encroachment on Minho’s life. His seemingly normal life. Why is Minho so normal? How is he so unaffected? Has he forgotten? Does Thomas have to forget everything again to get better? He’d rather feel this way forever than forget.

Finally Thomas is able to control his breathing, one singular thought still drumming through his mind. “Can you tell me what happened?” Minho asks. “Thomas?”

Thomas sniffs, wipes his nose, pulls away from Minho. He leans forward, resting his head in his hands, elbows on the table, effectively shrugging Minho’s hands off of him. “I’m sorry,” he says with a breaking voice.

“It’s fine, you’re fine.” Minho waits and doesn’t attempt touching Thomas again, to Thomas’s both relief and slight disappointment. He rubs his eyes again and sighs.

“I—” he starts. Closing his eyes shut, he chokes out, “I’m gonna forget him.”

Thomas doesn’t have any photos or anything to remember Newt by except for the letter, which provides no visuals. Someday he’s gonna forget what Newt looks like entirely. He will always, always remember that he was beautiful, but he will forget the straw color of his hair, the soft and dark brown of his eyes, the gold in his skin, the curve of his lips, the movement of his hair in the wind, his loping gait when he ran as he avoided putting pressure on his bad leg. And Thomas isn’t ready for that. He doesn’t want to forget.

“What do you mean, you’re gonna forget him?” Minho asks, tender, unsure.

“I mean, I’m gonna forget what he looked like.” His voice is muffled from behind his hands. “I’m gonna forget the sound of his voice, I’m gonna forget what it was like to — I’m gonna forget him and I don’t want to forget him I can’t forget him Minho what if I forget him I can’t—”

“Hey, calm down—”

“And—and— I’m not _human_ anymore. I mean, I am, I am — but I don’t feel like I am. I’ve _killed_ people and people aren’t meant to have that power, right? I— I’ve lost a piece of the humanity in me and I killed _him_ , out of everybody I killed, it’s _him_ that I— I can’t be human anymore, I’m something else, I’m—”

“Thomas, calm down, man.” Thomas stops. He hadn’t been aware of how panicked he sounded. He closes his eyes, embarrassed. Minho nudges Thomas’s shoulder, and when Thomas does nothing, he pulls Thomas’s hands away from his face. “It’s okay. Do you need a—”

“Yeah,” Thomas nods feverishly and lets Minho hug him again. He lets his arms fall loosely, instinctively, around Minho’s waist. Minho rubs his back, and they sway gently. It calms Thomas almost immediately, though they are still sitting in an awkward position, side by side on the bench.

He groans, upset that he’s been crying so much lately. “I read his letter, Minho,” he murmurs into his friend’s shoulder. Minho doesn’t say anything, but he nods into the crook of Thomas’s neck. “I wish I didn’t.”

“No, you don’t.” Minho pauses. “None of that is true, by the way. You’re always going to remember him, because he meant too much for you to forget. And you’re still completely human. And you didn’t kill him.”

Thomas doesn’t respond. _Then what_ did _kill him? WICKED? Himself? The Flare? Was he already dead?_ They sit in their silent embrace for another minute. Then he pulls himself away. “Thank you,” he says.

“No problem.”

“I’m gonna eat now. You can go if you want.”

“I can stay.”

“Okay.” Thomas sniffs, rubs an eye. He doesn’t think of the letter, even though he can hear it in the back of his mind. Since he read it, it’s been on a constant loop.

He brings his plate close to him again and begins to eat, though he isn’t very hungry. Minho talks to him about the trip Vince and Jorge are planning to retrieve more supplies — they’re bringing Gally and Minho along, and Brenda and Miyoko are flying the Berg — and Thomas absentmindedly listens. But mostly he’s thinking on his own.

Not for the first time, he remembers what Newt told him about his leg, and how he’d come to have that lilt in his walk, like his voice, that never went away. He wonders what it’s like to fall. To close your eyes, fully expecting what you’ve been wanting for so long — utter silence. Having no memories meant a single thought could echo for days on end, and if there were vicious words, they stuck. Silence would drive that away. No more voices in your head, no more darkness overshadowing every _single_ thought, no more nightmares — and the rush of relief. Sweet, like salty ocean air as the sun sets.

He wonders what it’s like when the silence doesn’t come, and instead there’s only agony. He decides maybe the tempting silence isn’t worth the risk of feeling that much pain.

But he keeps thinking about the silence.

 

-                     -                     -

 

Thomas leaves dinner early to do something he should’ve done a long time ago.

He hasn’t explored much of this side of the island, even though his hut sits so far from anything else of the island that it probably counts as “this side” of the island. Brenda had told him it was over here, but he doesn’t exactly know where it is. He figures he just has to walk far enough to stumble upon it. Hopefully it won’t take too long; the light of the day is almost gone, telltale from the brilliant gold tone settling between shadows like fine dust.

And he doesn’t have to walk very far until he sees it past the curve of the hill. He stops dead in his tracks. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he can only look at it from that distance. He doesn’t want to get any closer to the grave. It’s simple, a rough slab of stone laying flat on the ground. He stands there, stares — there’s a loose bouquet of purple wildflowers scattered over it — and doesn’t say or think a thing. The last of the golden light fades in the time he stays.

Then he turns and walks away.

Thomas walks all the way to the big rock he loves so much, taking the long way around the back of the buildings to avoid running into anyone. When he stops by the rock, he shifts his weight back and forth on his feet, feeling indecisive.

Laying a gentle touch to the necklace hanging round his neck absolves that indecision.

He tugs off his socks, tucking them into his shoes. Takes out everything from his pockets, puts those in his shoes, too. Leaves his necklace on. Stands next to his neat pile of stuff and stares out at the water. Thomas sighs. And he walks until the water is lapping at his feet, and then he keeps walking. He stops when the water reaches his waist, soaking his pants and seeping up his shirt.

The cold water wakes him up from the daze he often gets stuck in. He knows this moment is real. Not a dream. The waves are wide and swaying, every so often threatening to sweep Thomas off his feet. The sun, partially hidden by heavy overcast, glitters mildly on the water. He looks at how low the sun hangs, figures it’ll be maybe half an hour before the world starts going grey.

Soon he is no longer able to keep his feet on the ground and he has to swim if he wants to go any further. He doesn’t think he ever learned how to swim, so he decides to just float on his back, watch the sky turn black. After a minute of watching with no obvious change in the color of the sky he gets bored.

This is as good a time as any.

After holding his necklace up to see for one last time the letter’s replacement, the blue essence that would have saved Newt’s life, he moves to swim again, knowing full well he can’t, and he lets himself go.

His immediate instinct is to try to save himself; arms flailing and kicking his legs, he surfaces again and goes back to floating on his back. Automatically he breaks into tears, but it’s a quick cry, quick rethinking of it all. Should he have taken one of the guns Jorge keeps in his hut? No, no, he never wants to touch one of those ever again. This is his only choice.

Then he goes again, ducking under the water. It takes everything in him to fight his most primal instincts to save his life. The strain and the fear cause him to suck in a deep breath — water floods his lungs. Coughing does nothing; the water is still everywhere. He closes his eyes. He feels his body sinking and it’s strangely peaceful — he’d always wanted to know if drowning felt as good as he imagined, and he thinks it does — but his breath keeps coming so _quick_ even though he tells himself to let it happen. This is what he wants, after all. Though the darkness and cool water is more calming than anything else he’d ever known, it still hurts. His chest burns, his eyes burn, his throat burns and tightens.

There’s another tightness around his wrist, bruising. He opens his eyes but can’t see anything beyond all the bubbles in the water whirling around him. And keeping his eyes open tires him. His eyelids droop closed again. The vice on his wrist moves to his upper arm and there’s another on his other side. His head hurts so badly. But in the darkness, he remembers how Newt’s hair shone in the sun, glowed in firelight.

Every thought leaves his mind as the pain in his head pulses; he sees a spark behind his eyes and then everything falls away.

 

-                     -                     -

 

“Come on, I want to show you something,” said a smiling Newt, a version of him too young for Thomas to remember. Thomas smiled back.

 

-                     -                     -

 

The world resets itself on its axis.

He takes the deepest breath he’s taken in his life as his eyes snap open.

His first glimpse of the sky, a blank slate of cold, dark grey, is joltingly obstructed by Minho’s face, looming over him. “Oh my God, Thomas, you fucking idiot you fucking — what the fuck—” Thomas is manhandled, pulled into Minho’s lap. As soon as he is moved, wracking coughs start shaking his body. Minho holds him tighter, muttering something under his breath, inaudible over Thomas’s coughing. He rocks back and forth. The coughing hurts Thomas so much his eyes well up with pained tears. He notices that Minho is wearing his swimming clothes.

Thomas can’t move on his own; he feels so weak. When his coughs trail away, he closes his teary eyes, and can finally hear what Minho is saying. He’s whispering, “Don’t do that, don’t do that, don’t do that, don’t do that,” again and again. Thomas swallows, his throat aching with the bitter taste of salt.

“Min—” he starts, rasping and coarse.

“Don’t _do_ that, do you _hear me_?” Minho nearly shouts, anger and desolation cracking through his voice. Thomas can’t even flinch — he doesn’t feel anything except sick to his stomach. He feels so guilty knowing his friend felt that badly because of him. Minho sniffs. “Never again, Thomas, don’t do that ever again. Don’t do that.”

He never wanted to hurt Minho.

“Don’t do that, don’t do that, don’t do that,” he keeps chanting.

The guilt is so sour and curdling in his gut that he wishes Minho hadn’t found him at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just one more chapter after this! this one was so hard to write, and the last one is going to be Even Harder. i haven't written it yet, i've only got a vague plan, so if you have any requests or suggestions of lil scenes to include in the concluding chapter, i'll try my best to deliver! hopefully i'll finish it before the end of the month yeehaw
> 
> thanks for reading this far <3 leave a comment pls!


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